


Band Ficlets

by tigersilver



Category: Pet Shop of Horrors
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance, flangst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26163748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: Some time ago, I wrote a series of short PSOH fics based on the names of bands. This is first one and there are others to come. They vary greatly in style, rating and so forth, and are 'older', as in I wrote them more than a year ago, so…things change. Including me, as a writer.These are NOT song fics, nor are they Band AUs, please note. It's only literally the name of the band I used as prompts.[Actually, it's been closer to a decade since I wrote these, and I am so sad that the fantastic manga Pet Shop of Horrors has such a small following at this point. However, I happened to write a lot of fic for that fandom and I am posting it here in hopes there are still other fans out there. Cheers! Tiger]
Relationships: Count D/Leon Orcot
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Band Ficlets

"Get your hands off me, you cretin!"

"Hey, hey, hey! I was just trying to help you, Count D! You don't have to get so 'effing snotty about it."

"I don't require your help, Detective. I am perfectly fine."

"I don't think so, asshole. You almost fell over there – you would've smacked the floor if it weren't for me grabbing you. So, Count—what's going on that you're such a weakling all the sudden? You sick or something?"

The Count shifted in Leon's lap, feebly attempting to struggle up. He was clearly furious—and clearly not himself.

"Of course not! I am never sick….merely tired, thank you. I'll be right as rain with a little rest, Detective. Now, let me go!"

"Nah. You're white as a sheet, Count. Doesn't look like you're going to do much of anything without a little help."

Leon stood up from the couch abruptly, bundling the flailing Count in his arms, settling him securely, and turned determinedly toward the Parlor door.

"Okay, where to? Where's your bedroom? I'll take you there."

"What!? What do you think you're doing, Detective? You are most certainly not going to 'take me there'! That's a private part of the Shop, I'll have you know! No visitors are allowed!"

"Jeez, Count. Get over it already. It's hardly like I'm going to get excited just from seeing your bedroom. Trust me, I've seen plenty of frilly panties in my life—or whatever it is you wear under those dresses of yours," Leon snorted. "Believe me, nothing you've got in there is going to make a damned bit of difference to me, ok? I just want to get you to bed before you pass out on me. Calm the hell down, alright?"

The Count blushed, a fiery red that stained his weary face and crept down his pale throat. Distressed, he plucked at Leon's hands, the ones that held him with so little effort, and cast his unusual eyes down at the floor, avoiding the Detective's clear gaze with all his might.

"No! Put me down, Detective! I can get there perfectly well on my own. I don't need your so-called 'help'!"

"Fine, Count," Leon answered, his voice heavy with patience. Obviously, he wasn't listening to a word the Count had to say. "Be that way. Whatever. Still, I'm gonna take you to your room, ok? You can do whatever you want from there."

"No!"

The Count was ready to die from sheer horror that Leon might be exposed to his most private things, his underwear and dirty clothes, used hairbrushes and damp towels -and the small silver-framed snapshot he kept on his bedside table.

"You mustn't!"

But the Detective most certainly was. He strode over to the Parlor door despite D's protests, shoving it open with one shoulder, the Count flailing in his arms, and then swung his shaggy head back and forth in amazement at the sight of the immensely long hallway that confronted him. It stretched endlessly on either side, lined with mysterious red lacquered doors, curving off into the far distance in a mind-boggling way.

"Damn it all to Hell, Count! Who knew this place was so big?" he muttered to himself, ignoring the Count's muffled squeaks of protest and peering around the elegant continuum with great professional interest.

"Alright, which one, D?" Finally, Leon remembered why he was poking around the private confines of the Shop in the first place. "Tell me and I'll dump you off there and get the fuck out of your face."

"Language!…and third to the left, Detective," the Count muttered, defeated and rather demoralized, burying his red face deeply in Leon's shoulder. He didn't dare look up, mortally afraid his eyes would reveal something other than mere exhaustion and annoyance with Leon's meddling. It had been a horribly long night, caring for an ailing and extremely ancient Beast, watching its noble spirit gradually slip away into memory. As much as he was exhausted, D was also terribly sad, for Kujo had been the last of his kind.

There'd never be another like him.

The Count had found himself wanting someone then, in the wee hours of the morning – someone to hold him tight and comfort him as he dealt with his grief. That the very person he'd stubbornly refused to admit he wanted most just three hours earlier now had the gall to pop up uninvited in his Parlor, oblivious as usual, obnoxiously obstinate as usual; well, that was asking bit much of the Count's battered psyche to handle impassively.

His dear detective had to go, D resolved, and soon, preferably before D gave in to his baser urges and clung to him, begging for comfort of an entirely different sort. Preferably before they arrived at the inner sanctum of the Count's private quarters, dominated by a lushly canopied, king-sized silk draped bed that practically demanded intimate action.

….And, too, before Leon's sharp eyes caught a glimpse of his own smiling face in that photo; clear and damning evidence of the Count's perilous fall from grace.

"This one?"

The Detective asked curiously, shifting the seemingly frail form in his arms and letting it down gently, so that the Count's body slid ever so slowly down his own bulkier one; chest to chest, thigh to thigh, every lean inch pressed against the Detective's, till the Count's slippered feet just touched the floor. D sucked in a sharp breath but stumbled, even so, for his Detective was a highly tempting tidbit for one so weak-willed—freshly showered and closely shaved, and acting such a damned perfect gentleman for once in his rude life!

"Yes," D bit out through clenched teeth. "Now, go, please, Detective. I've had more than enough 'help'. I'll get myself settled into bed."

"Sure—if you say so, Count." Leon examined him critically. "You look like shit to me, though. Are you sure you want me to leave?"

The Count visibly got hold himself and reared away, up against the door, leaning as far as physically possible from the LAPD's finest as he possibly could in that restricted space, long-fingered hands curled tightly at his sides, his eyes fixed on the middle button of Leon's flannel as though it were utterly fascinating. He was well aware he was struggling to respond normally.

Truly, D told himself, he couldn't bear it for much longer.

"I'm perfectly fine, really. You can leave, Detective," he replied, and blessed his ingrained habits of self-control. He needed every ounce, every particle.

"You sure?" The Detective was clearly worried. "You want some water or something? Help with your clothes? That thing you're wearing looks pretty damned complicated." Leon kept his large hands on D's thin shoulders nonetheless, steadying him, tormenting him.

"I can stay for a while if you want; keep an eye—" the Detective offered, running an assessing eye down at his unwilling captive with concern. "If you, uh…want me to."

The Count drew himself up to full height, whipping his carefully stayed desire into anger, his desperate longing into mere irritation.

"No!" he answered forcefully. "As I keep telling you, Detective, I am perfectly well – and more than capable of taking care of myself! I thank you most sincerely for your kind assistance, but you may go now. Your conscience is clear, yes? You've helped the poor, unfortunate citizen in distress like a good little policeman, so just toddle along, Detective. I don't need you!"

D inched back even farther, practically melding his backbone into the door panel, plastering himself to the carved, painted wood like a limpet, eyes falling ever lower, glued now to Leon's belt buckle, and shoulders cringing away from the warmth of long fingers, the concern writ large in Leon's clear blue eyes.

"Damn!" Leon swore, "but you're weird as fuck this morning, Count! Are you sure you're not sick? Want me to call a doctor?"

"No!" The Count was as close to tears of utter frustration as he ever got, and it took all he had to continue protesting. "No doctor can help me, Detective – I just need some sleep! Please leave so I may rest, Detective—don't you understand that you're in the way here? I thank you for all of your help, but—I want you to go now!"

Leon pulled his hands off D's thin shoulders abruptly, as if the flesh beneath had singed him, and stepped back, the worry masked now by quick temper.

"Shit, you pansy-ass twerp!" he snapped back, sneering nastily. "Can't you even be pleasant when someone's trying to help you?"

The Detective turned on his heel and stomped down the hallway to the Parlor door, so quickly he didn't notice the hand D involuntarily reached toward him.

"Fine, Count D," Leon told the blank face of the door before him, his voice bitter and tight. "Suit yourself! I'm out the door now, alright? Happy!?"

"Leon—!" Not a cry on D's part, but a breathy whisper, barely heard. More 'felt', if the slight jerk echoing through the Detective's sure stance was an indication.

The Detective paused at the exit, one tanned hand resting uneasily on the brass knob, and glanced over his shoulder briefly at the Count, who had sagged bonelessly where he still stood, backed up against his bedroom door, his lovely mask of a face now cracking slightly under the twin pressures of misery and physical exhaustion. Impartial concern filled the Detective's blue eyes again, for the Detective was a very nice man, despite all his many faults.

Leon grinned, wry and rueful, and decisively turned the doorknob.

"Look, Count—I'll call you later, ok? Bring you some sugar or something—make sure you're still alive."

Leon.

D winced at the sea blue shades of the policeman's fine eyes, turning his head sharply away, flinching.

Truly, he could not bear it, the Count admitted. He had not the strength to resist this man, nor the will—not in ages and certainly not now, with heat trickling through his very center and stupid words of love eternal battering against his tightly clamped lips.

"Sweet dreams, you asshole. I'll lock up behind me." The mix of amused annoyance and concern in the Detective's voice echoed back strangely down the Shop's huge Hallway, and was abruptly cut off as he pulled the door shut behind him.

Once safely closeted in his quarters, D undressed slowly, gravid with lingering anguish. It took him forever to close his tired eyes even though he was wrung dry, all his considerable inner reserves depleted. His thoughts wouldn't settle, whirling and chasing futilely after the titillating possibilities inherent in Leon's kindness, his warm concern—the 'might-have-been's' and 'what if?'s' he'd so firmly cut short. And there, on the edges of D's torment over the Detective, were the memories of a boundless love and knowledge sparkling in Kujo's depthless green gaze as his ancient spirit danced ever further into the ether.

D would miss Kujo fiercely. There would never be another of his kind, thanks to the hated humans.

…And even if his dear detective was attracted, as he was—even if he actually cared, as D did, it could never be. The Count had a job to do, one that wouldn't allow for things like that. The Detective was one of 'them' and there could be no happy ending to this tale. 'Love, hope and dreams' did not, by any means, rule out 'loss, despair and nightmares'—it only made the lonely walk through life all that much more bearable, even for such as he, D knew.

No. Oh, no.

Finally, restless beyond bearing, the Count took the small silver frame from its place of honor, cradling it carefully to his bare chest, the Kodachrome face behind the glass pressed against his chilled skin in a silent, impossible kiss. He sighed, rolling to his side and curling up around the soulless rectangle, a quavering, weighty sound that would've had the wary detective on the alert immediately, had he been in the room to hear it.

But, by the gods, if only… if only.


End file.
